Swords of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  Almost instantly, the little minion’s nose began to bleed and Demetrios sent him below to change clothing with the other minion, promising the terrified child dire punishment if his blood should damage the costly stuffs in which he was attired.

  While the little slaves did his bidding, the High Lord ordered Titos to fetch one of the dockside idlers who had been splicing ropes, mending nets, and chatting while gawking at the newcomers. The captain shortly returned with an ageless, weather-browned man and Demetrios commanded Sergios to question the oldster.

  Shuffling his big, tar-stained feet on the worn stones of the quay, the man heard Sergios out, then replied nonchalantly in atrociously accented Ehleenokos. “Oh, aye, Cap’n, Ol’ Short-nose kens you’re here, right enough. For a chariot, you’ll have a long wait, ’cause it ain’t no horses on these here islands. Ain’t no need for the critters, nor no graze, neither — the sheeps and goats and pigs gits it all.

  “As for a litter . . .” Before continuing, he ran a tarry forefinger far up one nostril, withdrew it, and critically examined his findings, then casually wiped them on the seat of his filthy cotton breeches. “Wal, last litter I recollect seein’ was made outa two boat hooks and a slicker — or was it a boat cloak? — and they used it to carry what was left of ol’ Zohab up to the priest’s place, the day that there big shark got inta the l’goon and chawed off his laigs, ’fore the Orks drove it off’n him. He died, o’course. Wouldn’ta wanted to live, no how, ’cause the bugger’d torn off his parts, too.

  “Manalive! He’uz some kinda big shark. You awta seed him. The Orks run him inta shaller water and we harpooned him and drug him up on the rocks and clubbed him ’til he stopped floppin’, then took a broad ax and took off his bottom jaw. ’Cause, you know, his kind’ll bite even after they dead. Forty-foot long, he were, and weighed nigh on to eight-thousan’ pound, after he’z cut up. Never see’d a shark like him, I hadn’, and I hopes I never see another’n. He’uz a kinda dirty-white and he wan’t shaped like most sharks, more like a tunny, I’d say.

  “Well, didn’ nobody wanta eat none of him, and I can’t say I blames ’em none, what with him a-eatin’ the bes’ parta ol’ Zohab, like he done. His tooths, the mosta ’em was too big for arrow points, so we give ’em to ol’ Foros, the dart-maker, and you know what he told me?”

  “Shut up!” screamed Demetrios, his face empurpled. “You garrulous old fool, we don’t want to hear another word about sharks. All we wish to be told is when Lord Pardos intends to send an honor guard to convey or conduct us to his palace.”

  The Sea Islander gave his crotch a good scratching, then answered: “Well, cain’t say as how I knows what a honor guard’s like, but you cain’t miss Ol’ Short-Nose’s place, seein’ its the onlies’ place on this here islan’s got more’n two stories. And it’s right on top the hill, too, and that’s good, ’cause the muskeetas don’t offen go thet far. And you jes’ wouldn’ b’lieve how bad they gets sometimes. Course, they don’t bother dark-skinned folks like me near as much as they do the pore bugger’s got lighter skin.

  “And, you know, you can b’lieve me or not, but it’s exac’ly the same way with fleas, too! Unless he’s a-starv-in’ to death, a flea’ll pass right over a dozen fellers, got dark skin and chomp right down on a light-skinned feller evertime. Thet’s why I tells these here light ’uns thet the bestes’ than’ they c’n do is to git theyselfs jest as dark as they can as quick as they can.

  “I tell you, I don’ know where they all comes from — muskeetas, I mean — but they jes’ lays up all day a-honin’ their boardin’ pikes. And come sundown they blows the conch and theys out a-reavin, ever’ mothers son of ’em. Course, the fleas and the lice is at it day and night, you know. But the lice ain’t so bad — ’they only gits in your hair. Course, that’s bad iffen you got a lotta hair, like you young fellers do. But iffen you like me . . .” He broke off, staring at the High Lord.

  Demetrios’ face had passed from lividity to absolute pallor. So angry was he that he was unable to do more than splutter and beat his clenched fists on the ship’s rail. His features were jerking uncontrollably and a vein in his forehead throbbed violently.

  Finally, he managed to gasp, “The gods damn your guts, you putrid, wormy, old swine! You tell us what we want to know, or you’ll be drinking a broth of your eyes and your clacking tongue!”

  The brown-skinned man regarded Demetrios without fear, then noisily hawked and spat on the dock. “I’m a-answerin you the bes’ I knows how. I don’ know if you can git away with talkin’ to folks like you jes’ talked to me where you come from, but Ol’ Short-Nose’s rules is thet name an’ threat callin’ is reasons enough to call a feller to stan’ an’ fight, man to man, iffen you’re a mind to.

  “Now your ship-master asted me to come over to here and I dropped my work and come right on over. Didn’ I? I done tried to be perlite an’ helpful, cause I could see you was a stranger an’ a landlubber, to boot. An’ I’s took me a pure lot offen you, cause you’s a furriner and I figgered me mebbe they don’t teach folks decent manners where you come from. You may be a big mucketymuck in your parts, but you ain’t in ’em now, lordy-boy.

  “I be a ol’ man now. But, in my day, I shipped with Ol’ Short-Nose an’ with Rockhead, his pa, an’ with Red-Arm, his uncle, too. An’ it’s many a good man’s guts I done spilled — in fac’, thet’s whut they still calls me, Gut-cutter Yahkohbz. Nowadays, I don’t even own me a sword, got no use for one no more; but I do have me a good knife, yet.” He shifted a wide, heavy-bladed dirk around to his right side, where its worn hilt was clearly visible.

  “Now, I may be three times as ol’ as you, lordy-boy, at leas’ twicet it, an’ you got you a sword, too. But I’d still lay you a helmet fulla gold to a pot fulla piss thet if I’uz to stan’ for my rights, you’d be a snack for the Orks in ’bout one minute. But I ain’t gonna do it, sonny, so it ain’t no call for you to wet your pants a worryin’.

  “I ain’t, ’cause I can take me one look at you an’ tell it wouldn’ be no’ fight nor no fun. B’sides, I got me more important thangs to git done, ’fore the lasta the daylight’s gone.”

  With that, he spun on his heel and limped back to the rope he had been splicing, casting not another glance at the High Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs.

  Between them, Lord Sergios and Master Titos managed to persuade Demetrios not to order his blacks to spear the old pirate, pointing out that, as the man was obviously free, such might be considered murder hereabouts, and the cashless High Lord called upon to pay a blood price. Far better, they argued, to discuss the incident at a propitious time with Lord Pardos, leaving punishment for the old man’s unpardonable crimes to his own sovran.

  The sprawling, three-story residence of Lord Pardos occupied most of an artificial mesa and was built mostly of the dark native stone. For many long minutes after arriving on the hilltop, Demetrios had to lean, gasping and shuddering, his red face streaming sweat, against the wall near the entrance. None of the black spearmen, nor Lord Sergios, nor even the little slave, was in the least winded, but it had been years since the High Lord had been forced to walk up an entire half mile of hillside.

  Within an outer court, lamps and torches flared an orange glow above the wall, while the mingled sounds of bellowing laughter, shouts, feminine squeals, and snatches of wild, barbaric music smote on Demetrios’ ears, and his nose registered the smells of roasted meat and wine.

  Outside the high, double-valved gate hung a scarred brass gong. When Demetrios had recovered-sufficiently to stand erect, Lord Sergios drew his sword and pounded on the gong. Abruptly, most of the noise from within subsided. Then one of the portals was swung half open and they were confronted by a gap-toothed, one-eyed giant of a man, wearing a well-oiled tunic of loricated armor and a brass-and-leather helm, with a huge, spiked ax on his shoulder.

  “Well?” he snarled. “State your business, an’ it better be good!”

  Sergios sheathed his blade, cleared his throat, and
spoke formally: “Sir, please announce to your Lord that Demetrios, High Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, requests audience with his cousin, Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles.”

  The mammoth pirate squinted his eye and demanded, “An’ be you him?”

  The High Lord roughly shoved Sergios aside and took what he hoped was as arrogant stance in front of this smelly, frightening man. “We are Demetrios, my man!” He tried to say the words firmly and deeply, but as he was still a bit out of breath, what came from his lips was a piping falsetto.

  The squinted eye widened. “You be the cousin of Ol’ Short-Nose? Well, I’ll be damned!” remarked the warrior. Then he slammed the gate in Demetrios’ face.

  When the gate was reopened, the axman was backed up by a half dozen well-armed men, two of them blacks of very similar build and features to the High Lord’s guards.

  “You,” the one-eyed man said, pointing a dirty finger at Demetrios, “can come in, you and your boy. And your guard-captain, too.” He indicated Lord Sergios, who was wearing a real cuirass and helmet in addition to his sword and ornate dagger. “First your guard-captain has to be disarmed and searched for hidden weapons. The resta your guards gotta stay here.”

  He spun about, then growled over his shoulder. “Now, come on. Ol’ Short-Nose don’t much care for waitin’.”

  The High Lord’s gaze had never before rested on so villainous a throng as the fifty-odd men who sat on benches or sprawled on cushions the length of the courtyard. Few seemed to possess more than a trace of Ehleen blood; most were obviously barbarians, and barbaric in taste as well as in lineage. Priceless jewelry adorned greasy tatters of once fine clothing or canvas jerkins; plain and well-worn sword hilts jutted from ornate scabbards. Ears and noses had been pierced to receive golden hoops or jeweled studs. Many were clad only in short trousers and, on their hairy skins, savage tattoos writhed around and across networks of white or pink or purple scars. Some were missing a part of an arm or a hand or fingers, many lacked front teeth, all or parts of ears, and one had replaced a missing eye with a huge opal. Another had painted the multitudinous scars on his chest, joining them with lines of color so as to spell out obscene words and phrases in Ehleenokos.

  Though the laughter of the men was loud and frequent, the faces of one and all were hard — hard as the muscles under their dirty, sweaty hides. The high walls stopped most of the cooling breezes and the courtyard had to be smelled to be believed. Alone, the mingled odors — of fish and cooked flesh and wine and ale, of cooking oil and lamp fat and wood smoke, of unwashed bodies and sweat — would have been more than sufficient to turn Demetrios’ stomach; but there was more, and it was, by his lights, even more sickening.

  Where, at Demetrios’ parties, each guest was provided with a pretty, little slaveboy, these uncultured primitives actually had women at their sides or sprawled across them! And most of the vile creatures were less than half clad, while some were completely nude. To the High Lord it was painfully obvious that none in this court was in any sense of the word civilized, for what civilized man could force himself to eat and drink while within proximity of so many utterly disgusting creatures?

  Advancing up the cleared space between the revelers, he was fighting to hold down his gorge when, ere he could be aware of her intentions, a brown-haired strumpet flung both her arms about his neck and kissed him full on his mouth.

  It was the final straw! Demetrios frantically fought his way out of the laughing woman’s noisome embrace, pushing her with such force that she measured her length upon the floor tiles. For a moment he just stood, stock-still, his face a greenish white. Then it came — doubling over, he spewed out the contents of his stomach.

  All the confusion stilled to a deathly silence, broken only by the tortured gagging of the vomiting man. Then one of three men seated behind a scarred table at the end of the courtyard slammed the palm of a four-fingered hand onto the wine-wet table and, lolling back in his chair, began to roar and snort with laughter. His two companions joined in, as did some of the other men and women. A few cracked ribald jests at the wretched High Lord’s condition, but most simply chuckled briefly, then went back to the business of the evening — eating and drinking and kissing and fondling.

  He retched in agony until, at last, his heaving stomach became convinced further efforts would yield no further results. As he straightened — gasping, livid, his bloodshot eyes streaming tears — the little minion snatched a nameless piece of clothing from off a nearby stool and began to dab at the wet stains on the High Lord’s attire.

  Demetrios felt well served. Here was an object on which he could safely vent the anger provoked by his embarrassment and frustration. His foot lashed out viciously; it caught the hapless child in the ribs, propelling him six feet to crash into a full wine barrel. As the stunned slaveboy crumpled, one of the women rushed to kneel beside him and took his bloody little head into her lap. Dipping a piece torn from her sheer skirt into the top of the barrel, she commenced to wipe the child’s forehead and cheeks.

  Despite an unsteadiness in his legs, Demetrios — horrified that one of his favorite minions should be defiled by the touch of a woman — started toward her, hissing, “You putrid, stinking bitch, you, get your hands off him this instant! Do you hear me, shameless she-thing?”

  The woman appraised him briefly, sneered, then turned back to the boy. Infuriated, the High Lord advanced until he stood over her, raised one be-ringed, fat-fingered hand to strike her . . . and was suddenly frozen by the coldest, hardest voice he had ever in his life heard.

  “Touch her, you mincing pig, and you’ll lose every finger on that hand, one joint per hour!”

  The speaker was seated on a low couch beside a tall, red-haired woman. He wore finely tooled knee boots, loose trousers cinched with a wide belt, and a cotton-lawn shirt open to the waist. A slender dagger was thrust into his belt, but he was otherwise unarmed amongst the weapons-bristling throng.

  However, when Demetrios got a good look at the speaker’s face, he could have again been ill. A wide scar ran from high on the left temple and on down to the chin, barely missing the eye; the tip of the man’s nose was gone and so was half the right ear; but most hideous of all, at some time an inch-wide hole had been gouged or cut into the man’s right cheek and, in healing, had never closed and his eyes and hair and bone structure led the High Lord to think that this man could be a Kath’ahróhs — a pureblood Ehleen.

  With considerable effort, Demetrios partially overcame his fear and repugnance. “How . . . dare you so address us! Do you know who we are?”

  Even the chuckle was hard and cold. “Fat as you are, I can see why you employ the plural when referring to yourself. Yes, I know who you are, as well as what you are — and it sickens me to have to acknowledge any degree of kinship to a thing like you, cousin.

  “As for me, I am Pardos, Lord of the Sea Isles. You are here to beg me for help. Seeing you, I can now understand why you need help. If you are a fair sample of what the Ehleenoee nobility of the mainland are become, may God help us. If all are such as you, cousin — a peacock-pretty pederast with a voice like a girl and no more body hair than the boy-children you beat and abuse, with less courage than a baby mouse — then mayhap a mainland ruled by clean, normal, courageous, and uncomplicated barbarians would make for better neighbors.”

  Arising, the Sea Lord strode over to his “guest,” then strolled slowly around him, critically eyeing his baubles and attire. Suddenly, he snatched out the High Lord’s sword and examined the stones of the golden hilt and guard; at length, and without apparent strain, he snapped off the two feet of dull blade and tossed the hilt to the red-haired woman.

  “The High Lord’s guest-gift to you, Kahndees.” She fingered the showy treasure — which was worth fully as much as Titos’ ship — and then her full lips curved in a mocking smile and she spoke in Ehleenokos as pure as Demetrios’ own. “I cannot truly express my thanks, My Lord Demetrios.” A hint of laughter lurked in her well-modulated voice.


  Pardos flicked the tip of the broken blade at the stiffened pleats of Demetrios’ linen kilt. “A skirt suits you well, cousin. Generally, your kind are more woman than man.”

  The High Lord quavered: “It . . . the kilt . . . is the ancient garb . . . of the Ehleen warrior.”

  “You?” Pardos snorted. “A warrior?” Then, tapping the blade on the cloth-of-gold breastplate, he added, “This is supposed to be a cuirass, I take it; why, it’d not turn a well-thrown pebble. As for your helmet . . .” He jabbed the silver-washed skewer through the stiffened cloth and snapped the entire contrivance up off Demetrios’ head, then flipped it to the red-haired woman.

  “Payment for your kiss, Mahndah. Our guest is generous.”

  She placed the chapeau on her brown curls, then made a deep obeisance. “My deepest thanks, Lord Demetrios. — I’ll wear it in memory of you.”

  Sweat streamed down the High Lord’s jowls. He was now certain that this horrible monster intended to kill him when he had finished toying with him.

  “Tch-tch,” clicked Pardos, noticing the copious perspiration. “You are unaccustomed to our climate here, cousin. You will be much cooler if you’ll but remove that heavy cape. Here . . . let me do it for you; after all, you are my guest.”

  After unpinning the brooches, he disconnected one end of the gold chain and slipped the cape from the High Lord’s shaking shoulders. Snapping the pieces together again, he turned and tossed them to the woman who knelt by the wine barrel.

  “This is for the lad, Tildah. But never fear, there’ll be something pretty for you, ere long.”

  Taking the High Lord’s soft white hand, Pardos commenced to pull at the showiest ring, an emerald-cut diamond set in reddish gold.